In This, O Nature, Yield I Pray To Me
By Ronald Ross
In this, O Nature, yield I pray to me.
I pace and pace, and think and think, and take
The fever’d hands, and note down all I see,
That some distant light may haply break.
The painful faces ask, can we not cure?
We answer, No, not yet; we seek the laws.
O God, revel thro’ all this thing obscure
The unseen, small, but million-murdering cause.
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